


let's speed smart

by youaremarvelous



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-14 10:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16490558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: Keith finds out the hard way that fevers, motorcycles, and snow don't mix.Keith isn’t sure if he’s more mortified or grateful when he hears the wet grumble of tires pulling up behind him. He’d wave the car off if he trusted himself to lift his head from his handlebars. He’d tell them not to bother, that his husband will finish him off if the snow or the fever doesn’t. Someone knocks on his helmet before he can muster the energy. Shave and a haircut, like this is all a big joke.Keith struggles to flip his visor up. “I’m sorry, I’m—”“You’re sorry, alright,” Shiro’s voice interrupts him. Keith freezes, and for once, it has nothing to do with the weather. He lifts his head to confirm it’s not an illusion conjured by his fever-addled brain. “Hey,” Shiro smiles when their eyes meet, “I hear you’re dying.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title heisted from mister [daniel dale johnston](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xydep2AB2Is)

Keith is a dozen soggy sneezes into an undercarriage repair when Kolivan plants a foot on his creeper and rolls him back from the Cadillac entrails he’s been staring at for the better part of an hour.

 

“Shiro will be here in twenty minutes,” he says, tossing a rag on Keith’s stomach. “I suggest you clean up in the meantime.”

 

Keith blinks up at him. “Why? What happened?”

 

Kolivan’s expression remains neutral, but Keith swears he can see disbelief drawn into the permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows. “You’re sick. He’s coming to take you home.”

 

Keith heaves himself upright. It’s mistake number one if the white static fizzing across his vision is any indication. Mistake number two is opening his mouth to protest. The words catch like flint in the back of his throat, igniting into a flurry of lung-squeezing coughs. It’s been a slow Saturday at the shop, a byproduct of the grey and bitter cold January weather. The quiet is a balm for the headache he's been nursing since breakfast, but it does little to mute the volley of crackling coughs ricocheting off the metal rafters like gunshots.

 

The fit tapers off with something wet splattering against Keith’s palm. He doesn’t look before wiping it into the rag in his lap, cheeks burning with a dizzy fusion of embarrassment and low-grade fever. Vehement denial is off the table, so he goes with the truth, instead. “It’s just a cold.”

 

Kolivan turns back to his workbench without as much as a raised eyebrow for acknowledgment. “Don’t forget to clock out.”

 

Keith drags himself to his feet, too exhausted to fight. He pulls his phone from his pocket and fires off a text telling Shiro to stay home. His chest is weighted with lead, his sinuses hard-packed with cement, but he’s not so far gone that he can’t ride his own damn bike. Hard-headed endurance is one of Keith’s points of pride. He’d driven himself to the hospital with a broken wrist when he was barely sixteen. A cold is nothing in comparison.  

 

Keith exits towards the alleyway, helmet tucked under his arm. The frigid weather finds him before he’s even fully out the door, rattling around him like loose change in an old coat pocket. It’s colder than he remembers. Every hair on his arms stands on end as he walks into the back street. He zips his leather jacket to the chin and hides his mouth in the high collar.

 

The yellow clouds churn overhead, dense and low-hanging, threatening snow. Keith swings a leg over his oil-black cruiser and balances his weight into the balls of his feet. His lungs squeeze from the movement, warning another throat-shredding coughing fit. He closes his eyes and breathes through his teeth. The crisp air settles over his sternum, heavy as uranium, but it helps.

 

Keith slips on his helmet when his throat finally loosens. It’s stuffy and tight against his pulsing temples, but he’s grateful to have it when he peels out of the shop and the sky bottoms out with a flurry of fat snowflakes.

 

Snow melts against his visor and Keith wipes it away with the flat of his gloved palm. Visibility is low but it’s still better than freezing wind whipping against his bare face. Keith remembers when he first got the helmet. It was a gift from Shiro back when they were strangers. Their paths had converged over an insomnia-fueled snack run and poorly-timed street race that resulted in a broken windshield for Shiro and a broken everything else for Keith.

 

Shiro had been his only visitor at the hospital beside the guys at the body shop, and he’d only come to drop off a damn helmet. At the time, Keith thought he was mocking him. His actions made a little more sense when Keith found out Shiro was a retired cop, even more sense when he found out he was a helpless flirt. Keith still hadn’t intended to wear the helmet, but he hadn’t intended to start deep conditioning his hair or eating food pyramid adhering meals, either.

 

He hadn’t intended to fall in love, but that’s what happened.

 

Keith speeds down back streets like he did when he was in his early twenties and desperate for an adrenaline rush and some extra cash. This time the coveted reward is his usual spot on the couch, melted into Shiro’s side. He sweats despite the cold, skin prickling with heat. Squat craftsman houses stream by, a dismal parade of out-of-season Christmas lights and muddy yards. Halfway home, the sound of his tires sizzling over the wet asphalt sharpens into a shrill, monotonal ring. The world tips on his axis and starts greying at the edges.

 

Keith signals and merges to the side of the road. He cranks off the engine and leans his helmeted head over his knuckles to steady himself. Bursts of translucent color dance across his vision. He’s making a spectacle of himself. At least, he would be if anyone else was stupid enough to be out in this weather.

 

For a delirious moment, he considers lying down in a snowbank. It’ll help the fever. It’ll help him not bust his skull open on the street when he inevitably faceplants it. Keith thinks about this morning when Shiro had tackled him into bed and told him to call out of work. Keith had thought of a couple of other things he’d rather do. Instead, he’d wiped his nose on Shiro’s chest and told him to stop being so dramatic. It was ironic in retrospect. Sitting there on the side of the road, shivering and miserable in the midst of a howling snowstorm, he feeels nothing but dramatic.

 

Keith isn’t sure if he’s more mortified or grateful when he hears the wet grumble of tires pulling up behind him. He’d wave the car off if he trusted himself to lift his head from his handlebars. He’d tell them not to bother, that his husband will finish him off if the snow or the fever doesn’t. Someone knocks on his helmet before he can muster the energy. Shave and a haircut, like this is all a big joke.

 

Keith struggles to flip his visor up. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

 

“You’re sorry, alright,” Shiro’s voice interrupts him. Keith freezes, and for once, it has nothing to do with the weather. He lifts his head to confirm it’s not an illusion conjured by his fever-addled brain. “Hey,” Shiro smiles when their eyes meet, “I hear you’re dying.”

 

It’s not a great time for Keith’s lungs to crumple like paper and plunge him into another gasping coughing fit, but that’s what happens. Shiro steps around him and rubs circles into his back. “I was kidding, you know. Don’t actually die.”

 

Keith yanks off his helmet and spits the gunk from his lungs on the ground. “I’ll try not to,” he says, voice a scrape.

 

“That’s the spirit.” Shiro smooths Keith’s sweat-damp hair from his face and settles a hand over his cheek, then his forehead. He whistles low. “Some fever you’re working on.”

 

“It’s cause I’m so hot for you.”

 

“Keith,” Shiro sighs, but it’s fond. “Don’t try to be cute.”

 

Keith would say the same if he wasn’t a strong gust away from keeling over. He lets Shiro help him into the car, but he refuses to leave his bike on the side of the road. They idle behind it in Shiro’s little Toyota while they wait for Kolivan to show up with his truck. It doesn’t take longer than twenty minutes, but it’s enough time for Keith to devolve from semi-coherent human being into a sore and sweaty snot monster.

 

“Why don’t you lie down in the back seat?” Shiro offers for the fifth time in as many minutes.

 

Keith shakes his head and kneads at his temples. “I told you I could get back myself. Didn’t you see my text?”

 

“You mean the one that said ‘sray hom’? Pretty glad I ignored it or I’d have an icicle instead for a husband by now.”

 

“You always said Captain America was hot.”

 

“Yeah, _after_ he was defrosted.”

 

Keith laughs. It’s a mistake, but he’s not sure what number. By this point, he’s lost count. The laugh knocks him into another wheezing coughing fit. Flames crackle in his chest and lick fiery daggers up his throat. It hurts to cough. It hurts to breathe. Keith gags into his hands and Shiro rubs his back, eyes lined with worry.

 

“That’s a nasty cough you got there.”

 

Keith wants to reply with something snarky to mitigate Shiro’s concern, ‘my cough’s not the only nasty thing about me,’ something along those lines. But all he can do is swallow around the acidic saliva flooding his mouth. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the dash. Shiro pushes something into his palm, a cough drop, maybe, or a mint. Keith doesn’t trust himself to keep anything down so he holds it, his palm growing sticky with sugar and sweat.

 

Shiro turns the heat to their feet. “Kolivan’s here,” he whispers, like Keith is a stray dog about to bolt. “I’m gonna talk to him real quick. I’ll be right back, okay?”

 

Keith nods without lifting his head from the dash. It’s nice here, cool. The low grumble of the engine eats up some of the tremor in his limbs. Shiro squeezes his knee and is gone in a whoosh of frigid air. Keith doesn’t notice himself falling asleep, but he must. One second he’s straining to hear Shiro and Kolivan’s muffled voices over the soft patter of snowflakes against the windshield, the next Shiro is guiding him back against the car seat and buckling his seatbelt over his lap.   

 

“‘S Kolivan pissed?” Keith asks groggily. His voice sounds like it’s been raked over broken glass and left out in the rain.

 

Shiro takes his hand off the gear shift and looks back at Keith. He cups the back of Keith’s head and pulls him forward to drop a kiss on his overheated temple. “Not as much as me,” Shiro says while they’re still cheek to cheek.

 

The hairs raise on the back of Keith’s neck. It hurts to talk so he doesn’t try. Any explanation he could cobble together would be redundant at this point, anyway. Hard-headed endurance is one of his points of pride, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its drawbacks.

 

Shiro shifts the car into drive and Keith leans his head against the window and lets his mind drift. It doesn’t snow here often. Maybe two or three times a winter. Keith used to spend it alone at the shop, staring at the door with his arms crossed over his chest until he gave up on the prospect of customers and went in the back to tinker with his bike.

 

These days, he prefers to spend it chasing Shiro around the yard. He’d pelt him with snowballs and push his freezing hands under his shirt whenever his back is turned, then warm him up again in the house, undo him in front of the fireplace with thorough reverence. Shiro always says Keith is a hopeless horndog, libido as long as his legs, but that’s not strictly true. His insatiable sex drive—like his obsession with HGTV and skill for shoulder massages—was a character trait he discovered post-Shiro.

 

Who’s to say if it was there all along or if all Keith's disparate parts were pushed into place by virtue of loving him. Keith stopped trying to differentiate ages ago.   

 

He tucks his hands into his armpits. The mental image of Shiro’s skin—flushed and dewy, bathed in golden light—wraps around him like a warm blanket. He’s lulled by the rumble of the car’s engine. Not quite asleep, not quite awake.

 

When he opens his eyes again, the road is webbed with white ice. Snow pierces the dense fog, darting past the windows like stars. It takes him a long moment to orient himself. The street is familiar, but they’re driving down it in the wrong direction.

 

“Home,” Keith croaks, barely intelligible. His throat hurts too much to elaborate.

 

“Home,” Shiro agrees, flipping on his turn signal. “But Medac first.”

 

Keith tries to level Shiro with his deepest scowl of disapproval, but Shiro, the absolute traitor, _laughs_.

 

“You don’t get a say.”

 

It’s a rude thing to tell a person whose vocal cords are presently spooled with barbed wire. Keith means to rub his dripping nose on Shiro in retaliation, but the car jolts and drowns out his thoughts with the shrill whine of skidding tires. There’s a ditch on one side of the road, a high curb on the other. Shiro braces his prosthetic arm across Keith’s shoulders and accelerates gently. The rear of the car fishtails to the outer lane, swinging precariously close to the edge. Keith closes his eyes, prepared for impact, but the tires find purchase at the last second and the car lurches to an abrupt stop.    

 

Shiro doesn’t move for a full minute. Snow pelts the car, heavier than before, tamping out their existence like a damp towel thrown over a flame.

 

Shiro lifts his hand from the gear shift in careful increments, like he’s scared the wrong move might send them careening towards the edge again. He turns to Keith and grips a hand on his thigh. “You okay?”

 

Keith nods. The metal of Shiro’s prosthetic is warm against his leg. “You?” He asks, voice weak as vapor.

 

Shiro tilts his head into the headrest and exhales. “Fine,” he breathes, “but we might be stuck here.”

 

Keith responds with another bout of wet, crackling coughs. Shiro grits his teeth and tries to ease the car into drive. The tires squeal—spinning the grey slush into streaks of slick ice—before losing purchase completely and sliding towards the ditch again. Shiro slams on the brake and the car jerks back to a stop. The windshield wipers flap wildly, squeaking like sneakers on a polished wood floor. Shiro sighs heavily and drops his forehead to the steering wheel.

 

Keith reaches over the middle console and winds his sweaty fingers into the braided cotton of Shiro’s sweater. “Least the company’s good,” he says. His voice is pitched a full octave lower than normal and cracks like the ice under their tires.

 

It’s worth the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uuuhhh y'all let me know if you want a prequel or a sequel or w/e? this was meant to be a one-off therapeutic drabble but I ended up building a whole universe for it in my notes and, yeah...just a fill a girl in if there's any interest.
> 
> holler if you wanna
> 
> [[tumblr](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/marvyarts)]
> 
> edit: okay so I guess there is interest for a second chap & I will deliver. thanks y'all!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro and Keith receive help from an unexpected (and unwilling) source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all know this is all made up, right?

“You steer and I’ll push?” Keith asks when Shiro returns from surveying the car. The joke would be funnier if not for the way his voice buckles around it.

 

Shiro brushes snow from his hair and shoulders. “We’re not getting anywhere on our own steam. I’m gonna give my buddies down at dispatch a call and see what our ETA for rescue is.”

 

Keith nods and pulls his muddy boots into his seat. Shiro watches him, his phone pressed against his ear. For a second, Keith thinks he might scold him, but he only reaches over to squeeze his knee. It reminds him of when they were new, back when petty arguments felt more fatal than they do now. The call connects after the second ring.

 

“Hunk, hey, it’s Shiro.” Tension melts from Shiro’s shoulders. He likes Hunk. They both do. “Yeah, it’s nice to hear from you, too. Wish I was calling just to chat.”

 

Keith props his head against his knees, watching snowflakes float by the passenger window. He’s lived in this town for more than a decade, but he can barely make heads or tails of their location. Any identifiable features have been erased beneath a thick cover of white. Keith imagines that it’s nature trying to blot out her mistakes like the liberal application of white-out over a typo.

 

“I’m fine, just stranded on Chestnut,” Shiro’s voice cuts through Keith’s thoughts. “Any idea when we might be seeing some plows out here?” He pauses. “I know. I know, but I had to pick up Keith. Usually, but he’s in a pretty bad way. Mmhmm. Not sure, the flu, maybe?” Keith can see Shiro glancing at him in the side mirror. “Yeah, I know. I’ll tell him. Thanks, Hunk.” Shiro drops the phone from his ear and runs a hand through his hair.  

 

Keith tucks a rattling cough into his hand. “No luck?”

 

“It’s gonna be a while,” Shiro sighs. He cups Keith’s neck and kneads his thumb and forefinger into the base of his head. “You hanging in there?”

 

“I’ll live,” Keith smiles, but it’s not convincing.

 

“Hunk said he’ll whip you up some of his family’s special chicken noodle soup as soon as the weather clears.”

 

Keith swallows and clears his throat. The sound of it is miserable, like a flooded engine trying to turn over. “Can’t wait.”

 

Snow drifts to the ground, lighter than before. It loops around the wind, a mockery to Shiro’s sinking despair. Keith has managed to deteriorate even further in the long hour since they’ve been stranded. He slips in and out of lucidity, his burning forehead fogging the window with a misty halo of steam.  

 

“It’s probably gonna be a couple hours still. Why don’t you lie down in the back seat for a while?”

 

Keith rubs at his chest. His unruly hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, his eyes glossed over and pale as a pearl. For a second, Shiro thinks he might actually cave, but he doesn’t get the chance. Red and blue lights flash in the rearview mirror. Shiro turns around in his seat. The windows are frosted over and and caked with snow so he opens his car door and peers out, instead.

 

Up the road, he sees a plume of steam from a familiar police issue Ford billowing towards the squat yellow sky. The oversized tires glide through the snow like a hot knife through butter, branding the street with checkerboard tire tread. Shiro turns back into the car, cheeks pink from the cold. “It’s James,” he says, “I’m gonna wave him down.”

 

“Shiro—” Keith reaches for Shiro’s arm but his reflexes are dulled by fever and he misses completely. “Shiro, wait!”

 

Shiro charges into the middle of the road, the sound of Keith’s wet hacking tailing after him like a signal flare. He waves his arms around and shouts. It’s a dangerous move with visibility so low. Snow crunches into his shoes and dampens the hem of his jeans, but he doesn’t care. It’s worth the discomfort if he can get Keith somewhere with a warm bed and medicine.

 

The truck grinds to a slow stop, spitting white slush at Shiro’s shins. The passenger side window rolls down at a hesitant crawl before stopping midway. Shiro grabs onto the frame, chest heaving. “James! Thank god you’re here.”

 

James squints at him through the narrow opening. “What’s the problem, Officer—” he pauses, the realization of his mistake drawn between his furrowing brows. He rolls the window down the rest of the way. “Uh—what do you need, Shirogane?”

 

Shiro bats the slip-up away with the truck’s exhaust. “I need you to take Keith to the hospital.”

 

James polite facade melts away at the mention of his least favorite former delinquent. “What did that idiot do this time?”

 

“He’s sick,” Shiro explains, “and our car’s stuck.”

 

“The city has already dispatched its emergency—”

 

“Please, Officer Griffin,” Shiro interrupts him. He peers into James’ eyes, drawing upon any ounce of empathy he can find. “We really need your help.”

 

James turns back to the road. He presses his lips into a thin line and exhales through his nose. It’s not explicit approval, but it’s not peeling away with a ‘fuck you’ and a middle finger thrown out the window, either. Shiro hobbles back to the car to retrieve Keith before James can change his mind. He expects a fight, but Keith is worryingly compliant. He melts against Shiro’s side and staggers across the narrow lane with all the grace of a newborn foal. Scowling, but not resistant.  

 

“You look like shit,” James says when Shiro helps Keith into the truck.

 

Keith opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes out is another crackling coughing fit. It’s the worst one yet. Keith can’t catch his breath. He gasps like a fish hooked on a line, choking on oxygen. His lungs are two oil kegs—heavy and hollow—scorching his throat with an untameable fire. Keith folds over his knees. He clenches his eyes shut and presses his hand to his mouth, swallowing convulsively.

 

“He’s not gonna vomit, is he?” James demands. “I just got the truck detailed last week.”

 

“It’s okay, buddy. You’re okay,” Shiro soothes, ignoring him. James might have the bedside manner of a prison warden, but he’s Keith’s ticket out of here. Shiro isn’t going to risk that by teaching him a lesson in compassion.

 

Keith doesn’t vomit, but he does have to spit another mouthful of gunk into the snow.

 

James grimaces. “You said he’s sick, not dying.”

 

“I’m...fine,” Keith pants with a trembling grimace.

 

“Yeah, right.”  

 

“Keep me in the loop,” Shiro interrupts. “I’ll be over there as soon as I can.” He takes Keith’s face in both his hands and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t be too hard on him, okay?”

 

Keith covers Shiro’s hands with his. It’s surprisingly intimate considering their audience, but Keith has never been one to curtail his affection. His tremors run down Shiro’s arms. “Stay safe,” Keith says, quiet as the lazy snowflakes bathing the world in a fine white patina. It’s a ridiculous thing to say when he’s the one boiling from the inside out, but that’s Keith. He’s a dowsing rod for whatever Shiro tries to bury inside himself.

 

James doesn’t try to make conversation on the way to the hospital. Keith is grateful because speaking is an increasingly impossible hurdle. Swallowing burns his throat with hot coals. Breathing grates against his tonsils like sandpaper. All he can do is lean his head against the window, watch the world slip by in a white, watery smear, and burn.

 

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty—” James pokes Keith’s shoulder with the corner of his citation book. “We’re here. You gonna get out on your own or do I have to drag you out?”

 

Keith peels himself from the window. A headache pulses behind his eyes, splintering his thoughts with pockets of fuzzy television static. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember much of anything.

 

“Keith?” James prompts.

 

The sound of his own name snaps Keith back to reality. He blinks hard. “I got it,” he rasps, reaching for the door handle.

 

Keith is good with his hands and steady on his feet. Graceful, though no one short of Shiro has ever said as much out loud. It doesn’t show in the way his clammy hand misses the door handle twice before finding purchase. His limbs are double their normal weight and frustratingly non-compliant. When he finally wins the battle with the handle and stumbles out of the truck, the bone-dry air smacks into him like Shiro’s windshield six years ago. He caves in on himself, coughing so fiercely he sees stars.

 

Hands are on him then, but he doesn’t know whose. They rub his back and tug him forward, a relentless tide of piercing light and oversaturated color. Keith is drowning in it. He can’t breathe, but that’s nothing new. He never can when Shiro isn’t around.

 

He doesn’t lose consciousness, but the proceeding events are difficult to follow. Time rushes by like the snow-blanketed town outside his car window, foreign and disorienting. As soon as Keith thinks he’s gained his bearings, the scenery shifts and something new rushes in to take its place. When he finds the floor again, he’s propped up in a hospital bed. A familiar face peers down at him.

 

“Keith! Keeeith. Earth to Keith, come in Keith.”

 

Keith groans and covers his eyes with his hand. Which is, apparently, a cue to keep talking.   

 

“Hey, dude, how’s it going? Couldn’t wait to see ol’ Lancey Lance again, huh?”

 

Keith can’t follow Lance on a good day. Back when he was stuck in the hospital for weeks on end, he coped by learning the right times to nod and grunt during wound redressing. It’s harder now with his thoughts unmoored, plunking around his skull like the steel ball in a pinball machine. He settles for dropping his hand and fixing Lance with what he hopes passes for a scowl.

 

“You’re right, save the accolades for the Google review.” Lance slips a thermometer under Keith’s tongue. “So what’s up with tall, dark, and cranky out there? You trying to make your way around the whole police force or something?”

 

Lance removes the thermometer and clucks his tongue at the reading. Keith means to fold a barking cough into his sleeve, but his arm is bare when he lifts it. He looks down. His jacket is gone, his shirt, too, replaced with a starchy white hospital gown. Keith doesn’t remember being changed. The realization worries him more than the building pressure in his chest.

 

“Oh yeah, sorry about that—” Lance velcros a blood pressure cuff around his bicep. “Hope you weren’t attached to those pants. Doubt you could breathe very well in them, anyway. They do sell sizes larger than skin tight, just, y’know, by the by.”

 

If Keith were in a more lucid state of mind, he might reply with something snarky. Instead, he draws upon every ounce of remaining energy to drag a question from his ragged throat. “Where’s Shiro?”

 

Lance winces at the sound. “Maybe don’t talk. You’re not feeling so hot, huh?”

 

Keith’s eyes turn sharp as a dagger. He doesn’t speak, but Lance gets it.

 

“Calm down, Mullet. Your side piece already headed back for him. I don’t know if you noticed but you’re kinda knockin’ on death’s door. So let’s worry about you for right now, okay?”

 

Keith doesn’t like that option. Reflecting on himself only ever unearths things he’d rather leave buried. In the end, he doesn’t have time to dwell. The doctor graces him with her presence long enough to identify the source of his misery as acute bronchitis bordering on walking pneumonia before disappearing down the hall again with the commanding click of low heels on linoleum. Lance sweeps back in with a humidifier and a heavy blush.

 

“God, she’s amazing. Did you see the way she handled that stethoscope? Inspired.”

 

Keith watches him, half-lidded and exhausted.

 

“I’m telling you, Keith, we’re meant to be. Mr. Allura McClain. How does that sound?”

 

Keith swallows and rubs the base of his neck.

 

Lance plops on a stool and wheels himself to Keith’s bedside. “Eh, I’m still workshopping it.” He hands Keith a dose of liquid medicine that tastes like an approximation of cherries and coats his throat with bitter menthol. “We don’t want to stop the cough completely. Better in than out and all that, but that should help you get a little sleep, alright?”

 

Keith leans back and closes his eyes. Unconsciousness laps at his feet like the foaming low tide, threatening to swell again and drag him under. Lance pulls his blanket to his collarbone. The wet hum of the humidifier roars like the interior of a conch shell against his ear. It drowns out the residual noise of the hospital and loosens the tight knot in his chest. Reality peels away bit by bit. First sight, then sound, then nothing.

 

When he wakes, Shiro is there. They’re fenced in by robin egg blue curtains and his bed has safety rails on either side. Keith is catapulted back to the past. He lifts his head, expecting to find his body bound by plaster and gauze, but there is none. It’s only his limbs, pale and blue-veined under the unflattering fluorescent lighting.  

 

“Hey,” Shiro says and squeezes Keith’s hand. Only then does Keith realize it’s been wrapped around his the entire time.

 

“Hey,” Keith echoes, graveled down and ugly. “Missed you.”

 

Shiro laughs and smooths Keith’s sweaty hair from his forehead. “You’ve only been here for an hour.”

 

Keith shrugs.

 

“Would’ve been longer, but James was nice enough to let me borrow his truck.”

 

There’s no way in hell that’s true. Keith’s no expert on the law, but he’s reasonably sure stealing a police vehicle is a felony. Shiro’s phone rings and he glances at the contact name before dismissing the call. “He owed me, anyway,” he says, tucking his cell away again.

 

Keith is overwhelmed with affection. This is the man he loves. The one who had advocated so fiercely for him when back they were little more than strangers. The one who who had never stopped believing in Keith’s integrity, even when Keith himself had. Keith would love nothing more than to wrap Shiro in his long legs and convey his infatuation in the best way he knows how, but exhaustion settles over him like the misty grey storm over the horizon. Shiro must sense it. He cups Keith’s cheek and strokes his eyebrow with his thumb. “Go to sleep,” he says. And because acknowledging Shiro’s request is the least he can do, Keith does.

 

He doesn’t wake again until James stomps into the room, spitting mad and shrouded in snow like a police uniform wearing abominable snowman. He throws Shiro’s car keys at his chest. “You do realize stealing a police car is a class C felony.” A small part of Keith is proud of himself for getting it right.

 

Lance skids in after him. “Family and patient approved visitors only!”

 

“This man stole my car!” James bellows.

 

“Borrowed,” Shiro corrects. He holds James’ keys out to him. “How are the roads looking?”

 

James snatches them back and stuffs them into his breast pocket. “Like I told you _before_ you made off with my truck, all the main roads should be plowed and salted by this evening.”

 

Keith doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, but another barking coughing fit crawls its way up his throat unbidden. He feels marginally better from the medicine and humidifier, but coughing cracks his chest open and spills molten lava over his vocal cords. The prickling heat in his cheeks bleeds into his neck and ears. Shiro rubs his thigh, Lance helps props him up, and Keith gasps and wheezes and chokes on air.

 

When it’s all over, Keith leans against the pillows again. The tiled ceiling spins overhead. Lance hands him a little paper cup of water. “Slow sips,” he warns.

 

Keith takes a tentative swallow. It burns the whole way down, but it does help to dispel the lead weight that’s settled in his lungs. Shiro watches, face lined with worry. He holds Keith by the elbow like he thinks he can’t support the density of a couple ounces of water. Keith would hate the attention if it was anyone else.

 

“I’d like to get him home sooner rather than later,” Shiro says, taking the cup from Keith once it’s empty. “It’s not doing him any good lying here surrounded by germs.”

 

“I’m a cop, Shirogane. Not an Uber driver.”

 

“Hey,” Lance interjects, “my brother Luis is an Uber driver and he would never turn down a sick passenger!”

 

“We’re only five minutes from here,” Shiro reasons. “You know I wouldn’t ask you if there was any other option.”

 

“Look at him—” Lance gestures at Keith. “Have you ever seen anyone more pathetic?”

 

Keith starts to protest out of habit, but it rolls him right into another rattling fit.

 

“I guess I could carry him home.” Shiro massages circles into Keith’s back. “The prosthetic always acts up in the cold and Keith is already a step away from full-blown pneumonia, but I’m sure we can manage somehow.”

 

James drives them home.

 

Shiro sits in the backseat so Keith can use his lap as a pillow. His thighs are too muscular to be considered comfortable, but the contact relaxes Keith in a way plush mattresses and feather pillows never could. The truck grumbles over the slushy road, spitting out exhaust that stings Keith’s irritated throat. He turns his nose into Shiro’s legs and Shiro pets the back of his head. He braces his hand against Keith’s back every time they hit a particularly rough patch. Keith is feverish and miserable, but he’s not unhappy. It’s not taking Shiro apart in front of a crackling fire until his words, his thoughts, his entire world is comprised only of Keith. But lying there, feeling the pulse of Shiro’s fingers against his skin, Keith suspects that it might already be, anyway.

 

All in all, it’s not the worst way to spend a snow day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the feedback in the last chapter!! this chapter wouldn't exist without you, seriously. 
> 
> I think I'm gonna end up writing a prologue with the back story...? idk, I'm also busy making art for a studio christmas sale so we'll see what happens. either way, I'm super appreciative of your comments. being new in this fandom often feels like yelling into a void. the void is cool and all, but hearing from living breathing people (or non-people idk your life) is, too. 
> 
> peace friends, and as always, hmu if you wanna yell
> 
> [[tumblr](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/marvyarts%22)]


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